Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  “It isn’t my fault! The man—he tried to stick me with a knife and then ran away!”

  “The tales you spin! Sneaking out of the school and ruining your new jacket in the bargain. I have half a mind to tell Reverend Bransby.”

  I know who you are, boy. My attacker’s whisper slithered through my mind and the tears came again.

  “Stop the play-acting now,” Bess scolded. “I’ll try to fix your jacket after supper. But don’t you dare be doing anything like that again. Do you know how much trouble you could be in right now?”

  I nodded, the tears flowing down my cheeks. Much more trouble than Bess realized. I had no doubt that the gray man would have sliced me to pieces if I hadn’t rung the bell.

  Bess finally clasped me in a hug and said, “Good boy. No more crying and no more lies.” She held me away from her and dried my cheeks. “Promise me now.”

  “And so I did,” I said to Dupin, whose face was the picture of concentration as I concluded my story. “But I could not understand why she made me promise not to lie and then told me to break that promise by hiding the truth of what happened to me on Church Street.”

  “Your attacker sliced your school jacket,” he said. “Most interesting.”

  “In what way?” I was still shaken by the force with which my memories had come upon me.

  “It cannot have escaped your attention that, in slashing your clothes, the old man was making reference to your grandparents’ crimes.”

  I felt as if the wind had been knocked from me. “Surely not. It seems . . . implausible. Why would the attacker from my childhood think I would know anything about the crimes purportedly committed by my grandparents? What would he hope to achieve by terrorizing me at school?”

  “That, as yet, is not clear. But we may certainly presume that whoever is stalking you now is somehow connected to this old man and the woman who attacked you as a child. Your nemesis—for that is what he surely is—seems to have a complex plan, and we must presume that he wishes to harm you.”

  “Harm?” I exclaimed. “But why?”

  “At this point we cannot know. We must keep our wits about us and, of course, put a stop to his plan.”

  “I find this very difficult to take in, Dupin. If I have a nemesis with nefarious plans as you suggest, why has he surfaced now after all these years?”

  Dupin paced in front of the school gate, taking in all details of the school and its surroundings. “That we shall have to ascertain,” he finally said.

  * * *

  The journey back to London was slow and tiredness overwhelmed me. When the carriage hit a particularly large hole in the road, I was shaken awake and discovered that we were just nearing the coach stand on Bond Street.

  “I am sorry, Dupin. Most impolite of me. I have not been sleeping well.”

  “It is understandable given the circumstances,” he said.

  We made our way to Brown’s Genteel Inn and retrieved our room keys at the front desk. Dupin turned to me and gave a slight bow.

  “It was a most instructive excursion. Shall we meet in my rooms for supper? Eight o’clock, perhaps?”

  I was reluctant to prolong such a dreadful day, but Dupin’s gimlet eye saw my weakness, and so I could not refuse.

  “Of course. I will be there at eight.”

  “Very good.” And Dupin took his leave, disappearing up the stairs without another word. Normally I would feel slighted by his hasty departure, but instead I felt relief. I longed to lose myself in the oblivion of sleep, if only for a few hours. I took a step toward the stairs, but the desk clerk’s voice turned me to stone.

  “Letters for you, Sir.”

  I should have been overjoyed at his words, for surely a letter from Mr. Dickens had finally arrived, but my neck prickled as if salt water were drying upon it and my hands were clammy as I accepted the two envelopes that bore my name in unfamiliar handwriting. I whispered my thanks to the clerk and adjourned to my room.

  Such was my terror of what the letters might contain, I took my time preparing for the moment of opening them, first removing my soiled shirt and then washing the thin veil of dust from my face, neck and hair. Feeling somewhat calmed, I drew the curtains and lit the tapers to produce a more tranquil atmosphere. Finally I summoned all the courage I had, and opened the first envelope. It was from Mr. Dickens.

  37 Albion Street, Broadstairs

  28 June 1840

  Dear Mr. Poe,

  I am sorry not to welcome you on your arrival to London, but I have been kept busy in Broadstairs. I intend to return to London on the first of July and will leave a message at Brown’s Genteel Inn suggesting a date and place to meet.

  I was delighted to receive your collection of stories, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. It is a consuming work, and I am full of admiration for your imagination and literary style. I will do my best to help you find a publisher in London.

  In the interim, I have been making enquiries about a suitable venue for a lecture and recitation. The Literary and Scientific Institute in Islington has been secured for the eighth of July, which I do hope is convenient. Please advise me soonest if it is not. Once I have your approval, an announcement regarding the date and venue of your presentation will be placed in our best newspaper, The Morning Chronicle. I will, of course, attend, but hope very much to meet you before then.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Charles Dickens

  My relief to find the letter to be from a benefactor rather than malefactor was great, though I was disappointed that the first of July had passed without the promised message from Mr. Dickens. Still, his efforts to organize a public lecture were noble, and if his pledge to assist me in finding a London publisher also succeeded, I would be forever in his debt.

  I was anxious to inform Dupin of the correspondence from Mr. Dickens and tore open the second envelope with haste. As I extracted the letter, a smell of briny water and rotting sea creatures tainted the atmosphere. The paper was stiff with salt. When I unfolded it, I discovered to my horror the pages I had thrown into the sea when on board the Ariel. The ink was smeared and faded, the paper sea-water stained, but it was undeniably my letter to Sissy, re-emerged from the depths, retrieved by some unholy means. Words leapt from the smudged page—

  Darling Sissy, my dearest wife,

  a ship bound for hell

  impossible to maintain a grip on the earthly world

  I have lied to you

  terrible secrets—secrets that may prove

  my blood tainted.

  my inheritance is indeed a

  scandalous and sordid one

  your love and all its brightness

  is lost to me

  a past that claims to be mine by

  blood if not by action.

  Your dear lost boy

  —words spoken to me from a distance, yet echoing in my mind like the fragments of a nightmare. As I held the paper, I heard the hush of time trickling through an hourglass, then a gentle rustling, the sound of minuscule crustaceans scrabbling on sand, their hard shells dragging across the softness of damp flesh. I felt the malignant creatures emerge from the envelope in my hands and creep across my wrists, up my arms, pincers digging into flesh, burrowing underneath, until I could feel a thousand or more of them crawling furiously beneath my skin.

  The Old Crown Inn, Birmingham

  18 September 1789

  Most daring, dainty Libertine,

  Our fortuitous encounter in St. James last night and your subsequent mannish performance made for a memorable evening of which I have much more to say. I truly regret the necessity of two weeks in Birmingham.

  Should you in my absence make the bold move of taking refuge in the nunnery again, pray acquaint yourself with a particular shop in Covent Garden with which all good men (or those aspiring to manhood) should be familiar, for as the sensible proprietress advises:

  To guard yourself from shame or fear,

  Votaries of Venus, hasten here;

/>   None in wares e’er found a flaw,

  Self preservation’s nature’s law.

  Herewith find one of her unsurpassed engines and remember that armour is the very best disguise for we gentlemen of intrigue!

  With unfailing respect,

  Your most devoted Partner

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  20 September 1789

  Wicked rogue of a Brother!

  Let me express my deepest appreciation for your useful gift after our timely “family reunion” at the St. James’s Street establishment. When jousting with nuns of an unsanctified order, armour is indeed best worn to protect the errant knight—and to safeguard those most dear to him. One hopes that all men of good standing make use of such “unsurpassed engines” when recumbent.

  Although I took great comfort at my brief sequestration in the St. James’s Street nunnery, which offered a welcome refuge from Miss Forster’s would-be avengers, I have no plans to commune with the ladies again. In truth, I found their company rather tiresome, and if I were to play the critic, their performance ill-rehearsed. The Abbess sorely underestimated the critical faculties of her audience. To cajole the spectators into a state of good humour, she was obliged to copiously dose them with wine of dubious quality. After a time, this did have the desired effect of putting the assembled fellows in a carousing mood, and so the Abbess and her quaking nuns were vindicated.

  Let us be clear—when viewed through unglazed eyes, the pageant was a shabby affair. The costumes were threadbare, and while one might argue that they were discarded with alacrity, thus rendering their quality of no importance, the slow, deliberate abandonment of finer attire would contribute to a more entrancing ambience. It is not the mere revelation of hidden treasures that is stimulating, but rather the anticipation of those treasures. And must I point out that it is not merely lust that impels the clever man, but rather ideals of a higher nature—artistic truth, justice and, dare I say, the finely honed blade of righteousness.

  In fraternity,

  E.

  The Old Crown Inn, Birmingham

  23 September 1789

  Censorious Sibling!

  May I remind you that it is far simpler to play the critic than to be the player. The Abbess and her devout charges have a singular reputation here in London and much further afield as the reliable Jack Harris, a critic far more knowledgeable of these spectacles than your good self, critiques the Abbess and her little troupe most favourably.

  Furthermore, I regret to say that your own performance was far from your best. Few can compare with your skills on the stage when playing Polly Peachum, Mrs. Candour or Kate Hardcastle, but when in the guise of my dear brother—a fellow actor and young man in search of entertainment—you were far less convincing. The Abbess is shrewd, and if it were not for my efforts at diversion, your disguise would have been penetrated.

  Let me impart a few lessons in how to bring more veracity to your performance, for if you allow your mask to drop in our current production, the consequences will be far greater than a barrage of vegetables. Your walk is improbably dainty for a man of enterprise—your steps small, your arms overly still. A young man must swagger with confidence, head held high, arms vigorously propelling him forward. Lead from the hips like a lusty gentleman—do not swish them from side to side like a milkmaid. When a nun divests herself of her habit, direct your gaze at her display and express your appreciation. You made the unpardonable error of avoiding the full glory put on view and fixing your eyes on me, which left the Abbess with quite the wrong impression. My brother, you must study the gestures of the stronger sex and make them your own if you wish to freely roam London at night.

  With concern,

  Your devoted Kinsman

  93 Jermyn Street, London

  25 September 1789

  Oh, scoundrel of a Brother!

  It is no hardship to apologise for my uncertain performance, and I freely admit that being pulled—quite literally—into such an unexpected situation had an adverse effect on my delivery, but I cannot say I am sorry that the Abbess had the wrong impression of our relationship if in future you will hesitate before visiting her nunnery. It was most transparent (and displeasing) that your acquaintance with the premises and all therein was very well-made.

  Let us not forget that the object of our little game is not for me to persuade the nuns through a convincing performance, but rather to teach a hard lesson to the haughty ladies of London who believe that money and fine dresses make them better human beings. Consider the odious Miss Forster. Am I not her equal? Are we folk “of the theatre’” or of reduced income inferior to a woman of feeble intelligence and insipid character trussed up in a pretty dress? I was born to the same class as our victims. Surely, the quality of my blood has not been diluted through my straitened circumstances!

  Care must indeed be taken as we make our mark. Transportation or death is not our aim. We have many more to educate with our performances.

  With respect,

  Your forthright Collaborator

  LONDON, SUNDAY, 5 JULY 1840

  Splinters of light pierced my eyelids, and I discovered myself collapsed across the small sofa, still dressed. My shirtsleeves were unfastened and there were long, livid trails across my arms. The room had a peculiar smell. I breathed more deeply—seaweed, flotsam, fish trapped in ghost nets. My legs were unsteady, but this was from an empty belly rather than an excess of drink. I checked my pocket watch: five o’clock. I undressed and tried to sleep in my bed, but spent a restless two hours drifting in and out of dreams that had me back at sea on a cursed ship that could never dock.

  At seven o’clock I washed and put on fresh clothing, but felt utterly depleted in spirit. It was not ennui, but rather a feeling of acute anxiousness. Something was stalking me, biding its time, its breath tickling up and down my spine as it waited for opportunity. It was unwise to remain alone in such a state, so I picked up the sea-stained letter and went directly to Dupin’s room. I rapped but once upon the door, and he instructed me to enter. Dupin was seated at the table, a hearty breakfast spread before him. The smell of fish assaulted me.

  “Herring. Would you care to join me?”

  I was transfixed as he quickly sliced the length of his herring, teased back the flesh and extracted the skeleton intact, which he set onto a side plate. Revulsion washed over me as he severed a piece of the flesh and delivered it to his mouth.

  “Quite acceptable,” Dupin remarked after contemplating the flavor. “Please, have some.”

  “Just coffee, thank you.”

  Dupin shrugged. “Sit. And please help yourself.” It was then that I noticed there were two place settings. Dupin anticipated my question.

  “I tried to summon you for dinner, but you would not be roused. I presumed that you preferred to dine alone, but hoped you would wish to breakfast with me.”

  “I was, in fact, ill. I had some peculiar news.” I placed the ghost letter on the table in front of me. Dupin continued dissecting his fish as he waited for me to say more. I poured some coffee, drank it quickly to ease the dryness of my mouth and helped myself to another cup. “This is a missive I threw over the side of the Ariel. The desk clerk gave it to me yesterday. Note how it is water-stained and smells of the sea. Someone collected the pages from the very wind itself and put them back together. It was folded and sealed in an envelope with my name upon it. There was no note with it, no return address.”

  Dupin consumed the last of his breakfast, dabbed at his mouth and folded his napkin neatly. He pushed his plate to one side and reached for the letter.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. It is no longer private.”

  Dupin scanned the missive quickly, then shifted his eyes back to mine. “You were anxious to destroy a letter written in the throes of inebriation lest the contents worry your wife.”

  I nodded, misery embracing me again.

  “And it has come back to haunt you, most mysteriously.”

  “L
ike a curse.”

  “Not unlike your inheritance.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I am confident the perpetrator has more physical substance than a phantom, despite his efforts to persuade you otherwise.”

  I was less sure than Dupin, but felt momentarily comforted by his words.

  “We can be certain now that your opponent was on the Ariel with you. Have you any thoughts as to who it might be? I suspect he would have taken advantage of the journey to study you and your habits very closely.”

  I tried to quell my horror at the thought of being imprisoned on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic—much of the time barely cognizant—with a man who wished me ill. My mind flicked through the passengers on the Ariel I had met: my saviors, Dr. and Mrs. Wallis, the prim Miss Nicholson, temperance lecturer Mr. Asquith and the bombastic Mr. Mackie.

  “Of course there were other passengers in steerage and the sailors themselves, but there was one passenger who shared our dining area who seemed to wish me ill. Mr. Mackie, who dressed in a most vulgar fashion—checks, a bright green frock coat—appeared angry that I had criticized some prose he had written. I have no recollection of the piece or the conversation we had about it, but his manner toward me was most aggressive.”

  “Was he from Philadelphia?”

  “From his accent, I would presume Virginia originally, but perhaps he spent time in Philadelphia. I cannot remember if we discussed it at all.”

  Dupin raised his brows slightly and nodded. “And he traveled to London?”

  “Yes. We took the same train, but did not sit together.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  I shook my head. “Mr. Mackie so enjoyed being the center of attention, it is difficult to imagine him fading into the background to spy upon me, but I can think of no other likely culprit.”

  Dupin nodded slightly. “Perhaps it is he.” A gentle rapping on the door interrupted us. “Enter,” Dupin called out.